


The Victor Chronicles

by Minimaliminal



Series: Sym [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Artist Victor Trevor, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Nonbinary Sherlock, Other, Polyamory, baby vamp sherly, ballerina Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-03
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-05-28 00:48:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6307168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minimaliminal/pseuds/Minimaliminal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To many, the word 'Victorian' brings to mind visions of stiff corsets and stiffer morals. Or mutton-chopped rippers crouching in shadowed alleyways. </p><p>But to Sherlock, all of that was merely a footnote. The fact that Queen Victoria was sitting on the throne at the time was entirely coincidental. Because to him, the Victorian Era got it's name from Victor Trevor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 23.6 Years on Earth

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello! Both veteran readers of my vampy ficery and newbies! I'd just like to introduce this piece briefly with a few announcements. This work is not linear in any sense of the word. The chapters are all fairly standalone, but I do have a nebulous idea of order and progression in this work. I don't intend to take you through time, but sort of take you deeper into Sherlock and Victor's relationship with every chapter.
> 
> But I'm probably just going to post in the order of however I manage to finish them.
> 
> Also, don't let the underage tag scare you off. While maturity in vampires is a little wibbly-wobbly, I assure you there is NO PEDOPHILIA. There's stuff with underage characters, but no explicit stuff while they're underage and they're both simultaneously underage.
> 
> I'll give specific warnings before every chapter, in case there's anything you'd rather not deal with and EVERY CHAPTER IS SKIPABLE. There's no need to force yourself through anything you're not enjoying to understand the plot. Because there is no real plot.

Sherlock was dizzy. They weren’t sure how much of it could be attributed to the adrenaline coursing through their system, the endorphins triggered by four straight hours of intense dancing or the sheer amount of applause at the final drop of the curtain.

Probably the applause, Sherlock decided as they waited for the dressing room to stop spinning. It was like a wall of solid praise, paired with light showers of roses and carnations. And they were directly in the center of it. Not off to the side as ‘villager #6’ or some other nameless background dancer but front and center as the lead. It so much more intoxicating than he'd anticipated.

There was a knock at the door. Victor’s voice seeped through the wood “Sherlock, are you decent?”

“Am I ever, darling?” they replied languidly as they began dislodging the crystal tiara from their hair. The hairdressers always managed to secure any headgear as if they were about to go out dancing in a hurricane.

Victor snickered from the other side of the door, but quickly turned it into a stately clearing of the throat. “Now, Holmes. I have some friends of mine who’d like to congratulate you personally on your fine performance this evening.”

Sherlock's euphoria diminished a degree at the use of their family name. That was always The Signal. How they'd know when to put the masks back on. When to be Sherlock and Victor, the ever-mercurial vampire ballerina and their artistic lover, or Holmes and Trevor, flatmates and nothing more. He sighed at his reflection and got up to open the door, throwing on a dressing gown in the process.

“Holmes! You were fantastic today, absolutely superb.” Victor was the first one through the door, gushing praise like a geyser. He thrust a bouquet larger than his head into Sherlock’s arms. They took a moment to revel in the complex floral scent before setting it to the side.

“You’re too kind.” Sherlock warned quietly as three others trickled into the dressing room. The first was a man with the thin whiskers of an adolescent vaguely veiling his expression of bafflement. Then came a man with a toupee that matched his confused visage in it's absurdity and a woman on his arm young enough to be his daughter.

“And you are much too humble, my friend. There was a point where it seemed as if you were no longer dancing to the music, but having the music dance to you.”

“Ah yes, the beginning of the third act. I was off-time, thank you for mentioning it.” They spat, hoping to bury the feelings of joy rising within them. Such things were dangerous in the company of strangers. “I’m afraid if I’ve ever known your names, dear gentlemen, I’ve forgotten them as Victor has so many friends.”

“Oh where have my manners got to? This is Mr. Robert Barnes, Dr. William Taft and his wife Priscilla. Long time admirers of my work.” Sherlock instantly translated his words to mean ‘pompous, rich idiots I'm trying to wring this month's rent out of'. They put on their best arse-kissing smile.

“Oh yes, of course! I believe he mentioned you two just the other day.” Sherlock addressed the couple, discreetly studying them. “I do hope you enjoyed the show, Mrs. Taft. I've been told you take as keen of an interest in the performing arts as your husband does in the visual.”

Priscilla Taft’s face colored prettily under Sherlock’s attention. Under the delicate veil of her perfume, they picked up the faintest bloom of… arousal. They exchanged a glance with Victor, who nodded discretely with approval. Sherlock found himself momentarily unable to hold back a grin.

Mrs. Taft smiled back prettily. They couldn’t truthfully say that they had any significant sexual or romantic interest in ladies, but they decided this was more to sate a personal curiosity of theirs. Just because they had no interest in the catch didn’t mean they were barred from enjoyed the chase. She could even make a useful ally.

“I must say, from the way Victor was describing you, we were all expecting you to be… different.” Her husband farted out from under his moustache. He looked quite relieved to have done it, which wasn’t at all surprising considering he seemed to have been holding it awhile.

“Oh? How so?” Sherlock laughed gently, knowing exactly what he meant. It was one of Victor’s few vices that he was often just a mite too truthful when it came to Sherlock. Of course, not with anything that would land them in prison. Just a few tidbits, a retelling of a moment from their boarding school days, a mention of their varied interests, which might sound a little unseemly to most ears. Although, to be fair they did have a few… attributes which they could never manage to disguise entirely.

“Well, he mentioned your considerable strength and stamina. So naturally, our first assumptions was that you would be in the part of the… Erm- other lead.” Robert Barnes stepped in, the quiver of his whiskers reminding Sherlock very much of a particularly large sewer rat.

“Well, you assumed incorrectly.” Sherlock said quickly and briefly, in an attempt to tie up that particular argument with a bow. They turned their attention back to the sweet young lady who honestly didn’t deserve the company of such massive oafs. “So, what particular pieces of Victor’s are you interested in? I know he has an extensive collection and a nigh-debilitating case of humility, so I’d like to be sure he’s not quite giving anything away.”

Priscilla was more than happy to pitch in. “We’re fascinated with his studies of dance and the human form. I haven’t seen any of the paintings in person yet, but the sketches are so very attentive and my husband has said such wonderful things about the finished products.”

Sherlock was more than happy to respond. They could babble about Victor’s paintings for the next century and did every time he had the opportunity. It was often the only publicly acceptable way to profess their love for their precious human. “Those wonderful things are most assuredly true. I must admit I don’t know the first thing about painting, but I can feel the essence of dancing in his pieces. The mistake that most artists make is that they depict only the pretty parts of dancing, rather than all the dedication and struggle that makes it all possible. Of course, Trevor doesn’t focus on the ugly parts but he allows them to give his works a depth beyond sheer aesthetic beauty-“

“What I find interesting is that the two of you share a living space.” The great oaf Taft interrupted, becoming uncomfortable with the familiarity his wife was showing towards the vampire.

Victor let out a brief chuckle of amusement, while Sherlock clicked their teeth and tried their hardest to remain passive. “Sherlock’s family took me in at a young age. We were brought up together like the closest of siblings and the best of friends. Utterly inseparable. So naturally, when I expressed my desire to seek my own fortune, Sherlock insisted on joining me. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes had no other option than to wish us well and threaten my life should their favorite child come to harm.” Sherlock let out a relieved chuckle. Victor had perfected the art of avoiding pronouns, thank the lord. While Sherlock was completely and utterly certain of their career choice as a ballerina, they weren’t entirely sure they wanted to be treated as such in everyday life.

“Oh, how lovely!” Priscilla beamed, tugging at her husband’s sleeve. “I wish my brother were so kind.”

William forced out a strange, stiff grimace.

“I’m sure you don’t, my sweet.” He whispered, just loud enough for everyone in the room to hear.

Sherlock took a deep breath, shifting their shoulders back and ever so subtly shifted their weight onto the balls of their toes allowing for just enough extra height for them to look down their nose comfortably. Their voice slipped a shade darker in tone. “If you’ll excuse me, _gentlemen,_ I-“

Victor laid a hand on their shoulder, both as reassurance and warning. “We understand, dear friend. You must be exhausted. Take all the time you need, I’ll have a cab waiting outside.”

He led his guests out quickly, sneaking a wink over his shoulder as he shut the door.

Sherlock slumped back into the overly plush, velvet lined chair by the vanity, feeling utterly drained of their previous good mood. They peeled off their costume quickly and efficiently, wiping their makeup off with no ceremony and just a little anger.

“Out of one costume, into another.” They sighed, unfolding the dress they came in. It was simple, by Victorian standards anyways, but far from comfortable. They much preferred the light, flowing things of the previous era. The kind their mother wore. It might have been easier if it actually fit, but Sherlock already had to tolerate having ballet costumes tailored for them every month or so and there’s only so much… handling they could withstand. So they settled for squeezing into bodices made for the standard human woman and stuffing the chest.

As Sherlock gathered their things and headed out the door, they remembered the bouquet. They picked it up, remembering again for a moment the thrill of the stage. The satisfaction of three month’s hard practice all coming together to create absolute perfection. A hundred hearts beating as one, two hundred feet pounding the stage in perfect harmony.

“We all expected you to be… different” They mocked at the bouquet as they left.

 

People ruin everything.

 


	2. 2 Weeks in Boarding School

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vic and Sherly's first meeting!
> 
> Warning: Minor warm fuzzies may occur upon reading. If warm fuzzies continue for more than 4 hours, you may need to cuddle a cute animal and/or person.

It was dark. But that meant nothing to Sherlock. They could see the other boys' sleeping forms as clearly as ever. This was probably their least favorite part of boarding school. They were fascinated by every aspect of humanity. Every part of their tiny little lives held so much nuance and meaning.

Except for the sleeping bit.

There was nothing fascinating about watching 25 boys sleeping. In order to assimilate themselves further into their routines, they tried synchronizing their resting period to the night. But without heat and relative solitude, it was nigh impossible to fall into a decent dose. And even when they did, it was only for an hour or two, leaving him the rest of the night to sit and do nothing.

 

It was cold. Sherlock didn’t like the cold. They were never cold at home. There were always blazing fires and blood servants more than willing to share a little of their heat. And father. And all of the books he’d read to them over a hot cup of tea. They wanted to go home.

“Can't sleep either, eh?” Whispered the boy from the bed beside him.

Sherlock nodded, peering over the heap of useless blankets to find another boy peering back at him.

“Pig over there's been keeping me up for the past week with his snoring. I have half a mind to stuff an apple in his mouth to shut him up.” He gestured to a kid across the room, snorting in his sleep. “What’s keeping you up?”

Sherlock knew the rest of the boys weren’t supposed to know that they didn't sleep. Or that they didn’t eat and couldn’t go out on sunny days. But still, they had the sudden urge to tell this random boy anything he wanted to know. It was, after all, the first time anyone wanted to know anything about them. They never knew lying would be so hard. “Cold.”

“It is rather cold, isn’t it?” The boy agreed, turning on his side to better converse. Sherlock noticed that one of his eyes was slightly higher than the other. It was charming in an odd way. Like a puppy with an askew ear. “Between the food and the cold, I'm beginning to think they're trying to kill us all.”

Sherlock nodded, as if they knew what the food was like. Then, upon remembering that humans couldn't see in the dark, made a noise of agreement.

“You don’t talk much, do you? What's your name?”

Sherlock hesitated. They've been told several times by humans that they had a strange name.

“William.” They lied, to their own surprise. Their own name never bothered them, evening if it was strange. So it was quite odd to find themself lying to this particular boy just to seem… more normal? More human? They weren’t even sure. “William Holmes.”

“Well William, my name's Victor Trevor” He announced with a small amount of pride. Sherlock imagined the boy standing triumphant over a mound of lions or some other toothy beast. The Victor of the Trevors. “Now no one snivels that much because of a little chill. You ok?”

“I wasn’t sniveling.” Sherlock whined unconvincingly. They’d gotten very good at hiding their more vampiric expressions of emotion but sometimes they'd forget themselves, lose their grip when they were sure they were alone, and some small echo of their loneliness would leak out.

“Fine. You haven’t been sniveling for every night as long as you’ve been here and I can’t hear you every time that you do.” Victor admitted sarcastically. “And I most certainly don’t worry about you. Just forget I said anything.”

“I miss my Father.” Sherlock confessed, maybe a little louder than they should’ve. “He’s very ill. Sometimes I worry if- If he’ll still be there when I go back home.”

Victor fell into a sympathetic silence. “I have a sister. Faith. She’s… a strange one. Her brain doesn’t work like most people. My mum just thinks she’s dull, but she’s not. I’m the only one who knows how to talk to her. I’m not sure how she’s getting on without me. Mum writes every week says she’s fine. But anyone could write anything, it don’t make it true.”

“You’re a good brother.” Sherlock whispered across the chasm between their beds. “You’re sister will be fine. I’m sure of it. Your mother wouldn’t lie to you.

“Thanks. You're probably right” Victor smiled a lopsided grin that complimented his lopsided face perfectly. It was possibly the vampire’s favorite human smile since they came here. Sherlock did their best to mimic it, but without a mirror they couldn't tell at all if it was at all accurate. But if they could get it right, they’d use it every day. “When you get back home, I bet your father will be right as rain.”

Such a thing was impossible. Although whatever ailment that plagued him currently was likely to pass, no human just recovers from old age. Sherlock appreciated the sentiment all the same.

“You… don’t happen to have any interesting books, do you?” Sherlock asked before Victor had a chance to fall asleep. “I've already finished all of mine and I get terribly bored.”

“Isn't it a little dark to be reading?”

Sherlock laughed to cover up his mistake. “I'm not going to read it now. I just don’t think I’ll remember to ask in the morning.”

Victor yawned, his voice getting foggy as tiredness washed over him. “There's a stack under my bed. I can’t remember exactly what I brought, but-“

“Whatever you have sounds wonderful, thank you.” Sherlock assured him, quietly diving to the ground for something to occupy them during the long hours of the night. They came up with a few thick novels which they'd never even seen in the extensive library at home.

“Sweet dreams.” They whispered to the boy in the neighboring bed, practicing that lopsided smile once more as they cracked open the cover of one of the borrowed books.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! If anyone's confused by the use of 'they' instead of 'him', I've decided that vampires live too long of lives to really be tied down to one gender for their entire life. Especially since standards of masculinity/femininity fluctuate so much from century to century and place to place. So, every few centuries they come up with entirely new personas that fit their time period and living situation, gender and all.
> 
> At this point, Sherlock just hasn't found a persona they're entirely comfortable with yet.


End file.
